secrets
by mishageddon
Summary: we live by the assassins creed. we are a brotherhood of assassins. descended from the assassins of great. even i am lucky enough to share a relation to the greatest--altair ibn al-had.
1. prolouge

::prologue::

sometime during the third crusade

"We are to remain a hidden society; no one is to know of us, of our brethren. We live by three simple rules. One: Keep your blade free of the innocent. Two: Hide in plain sight. Do not let the enemy know you are there. And last and foremost, Three: Never compromise the brotherhood. These are simple rules yet you seem to have forgotten them, for that you cannot be forgiven."

The screams of the sinful man breach the cool night sky as he is sent up to the Kingdom he has earned, Heaven or Hell.

I shall never know.

I stare down at the bloodied, mutilated corpse from the shadows, my body pressed against the roof I laid upon. I silently hope I can reach the Kingdom best for me, because I have lived up to my sworn secrecy.


	2. chapter one

*~*~*~*

chapter one. of brotherhood and of assassins.

*~*~*~*

_What is an Assassin? A man who does wrong? A murderer? A killer? No. An assassin is none of these. An assassin is a person much like you or I, right? Trick question, for you see—I, myself, am an assassin._

_And all that time you had laid your trust in me, that I would keep your secrets, that I would be your friend forever, or that I would be there for you when you were sad and be there for you when you were ecstatic I was an assassin._

So, wait, then, I'm a natural killer, right? Since assassins are killers, correct?_ No, no—wrong. I'm sorry but an assassin is a normal person. We just know how to use the abilities and gifts given to us by the Creator._

So—all that time—I was really on a mission. A mission to kill; while _pretending_ to be your friend; _pretending_ to be a straight "A" student. When in actuality I plotting to kill you, right_? No. I'm sorry, wrong again. I was never plotting to kill you—maybe Mrs. Cordd, but not you._

So you were supposed to be my accomplice, right? The one who I lay all the blame on and the one who the police chase for "murdering" the vice principal of the high school, right? _No—God you must be stupid._

_Assassins work either alone, in pairs, or in groups of three to five. Unlike video games we don't just shoot people from roofs or leap down from high ledges into an occupied area to kill._

_Our victims "pass in their sleep" or they suffer poisoning or they receive a rather harsh stab to a vital point in the body, or the shot to a vital part of the body._

_If we feel really into the video game/past life thing we might randomly show up and face off our target, perhaps even make a big show of killing them._

_But that's not how a _true assassin _works._

Surely then, you must be one of the ones chosen by the Superior to be an assassin? That's the only other option. _Well, it's a possibility. I mean; we did become very close. You did spill your carefully crafted bucket of secrets to me, just as just now I told you everything of assassins. _But if you didn't come to make me an assassin why did you tell me this? _Well there's always the possibility that I would let you simply escape, to take your newfound knowledge and make a story or twist a tale of adventure based on what I told you._

_You like that second option, of course you do. Because nobody _wants_to ever actually _die_. Maybe I _should_ take you. You're insightful. You're skilled. You just need training and influence._

_Sounds exciting, right? Everyone's dream-come-true. Eh, its lots of hard work and quality time spent._ Spent? _Well, not spent on_ nothing, _but_ spent, _you know? It's hard to explain. But it's not all fun and games. You don't just wake up one morning with the knowledge of how exactly to get your blade through a man's neck without splaying blood on the wall next to him._

_So, tell me._

_What is an Assassin?_

An Assassin is a normal person who takes their skills and abilities to the maximum and is know ledged in what the body and human can do. An Assassin is a bringer of peace and a sign of death.

_I am an Assassin._

—

Lily Mizuho

* * *

Everything is kind of blurry. It's all too bright or too dark—too mellow—yet, wild, it's unreal. I feel jumpy, even though I'm alone on an empty commoner's bus.

Seeking comfort, I finger my blade. It was concealed against my skin, on my forearm, hanging slightly out of the sleeve that reached my fingertips, as so the metal edge shimmered and shone when it caught light.

I stare down at it when a hand lands on my shoulder. "Hey!" It's an all too cheerful, shining voice that proclaims the "hey". I jump—aware—and glare at the girl.

_Last._

She's so annoying. Yet, she was an assassin and one of the best known at that— well, within the Brotherhood anyway.

The girl was pretty much half-naked, yet I knew she had the required amount of weapons concealed in the short-shorts, knee-high converse and semi-loose spaghetti-strap tank top she wore.

"Last!" I shout my voice raising. Last raises a slender dark salmon eyebrow and with a swift hand sweeps her hair back from her eyes, the dark blue shining as the strand of lighter blue within the orbs caught the suns rays. Last draws her lips back into a smirk and leans in close to me.

"Parker there has to be something you really, really want." I smirk and nod, "Yeah. I want plenty of things; one of them is for you to go the hell away." I turn to her and flash my pearly whites, Last scoffs.

I hate how I hate-yet-love that scoff.

"As if Parker. You know as well as I do that you have hormones."

"Where are you trying to go with this?" I ask, crossing my arms and leaning against the titanium wall behind me. I lift my knees up slightly and Last's own meet them, she grins and gently lowers her body. I look away; dragging my chin up with me, "Ah," Last breaths, pulling my chin down. Her tank top fell to show some more skin.

She was definitely not wearing a bra.

Her lips trace my jaw-line.

I groan. I may have hated her, but _Lord _this woman had_ skill_. "You know where I'm going now," her thumbs intrude my belt-loops, "Right?"

I grab her shoulders and yank her down—our lips connect. Tongues swirl, hands move, heated movements, and frenzied rushes. It's all torn apart.

There's no way this is real. I break away, back away; stare her down. She steps back, closes her eyes, _laughs_. There is no mirth in the laugh. It's fake.

"I hope you're happy." She whispers, but her voice was not hers.

I stare at her—blink and her hair has changed to the shaggy unkempt brunette of my brother, blonde tips the bangs, the light catches it, shines intensely in my eye. "I hope you're glad you piece of filth." She stands, her body a twelve-year old boys.

Last is no longer Last. She's not even a she.

I swallow thickly; this—this is impossible. She's transformed . . . into my brother.

"Because," he pauses, shakes his head. Another mirthless laugh, "when I'm done with you that's all you'll be." The voice is furious. It's almost a scream—a silent scream. "You'll be a shred of something. Something resembling the bastard you are." The fists clench.

"You've let us all down." He turns and his eyes meet mine. They were beautiful eyes really, dark gold, with tawny flecks in them. "You were supposed to protect us Parker! Protect Mom and protect Dad!

"Protect Lindsey! Your little sister, Parker! Little sister! But you can't now! You can't protect us now that _we_ don't exist!"

"Jeremy." I whisper. It was a cry for help. A plea of forgiveness; I lean forward and reach. Jeremiah knocks my hand away, clutches my wrist. It stings; he's cutting off my circulation. I tug, he tumbles, straddling my hips—his free hand grabs my shirt-collar. His grip is so strong it warps the threading.

Fire bursts around us. The heat licks at the atmosphere. I wince, smoke starts to hover around us.

"No! No, Parker! I don't wanna hear it!

"You were the cause of this!

"You—you are the reason Mom and Dad and Lindsey are dead!" He releases my now-limp hand and shirt-collar. He grabs either side of my head and twines his fingers in my shaggy hair, drags his chewed fingernails on my scalp. I wince, the pain.

My brother was hurting me.

He shifts to settle more comfortably on my body. He stares at me for a second, digs the memory of it in my head. His removes his hands from my hair, tearing out bits as he drags his nails against my flesh. He pauses, and digs his nails into my cheekbone, leans forward.

His lips brush my now bloodied cheek; he rests his lips on the shell of my ear. I shudder; I can feel his eyelashes pull at my hair. "I swear to _fucking God_, Parker. I will _hunt you down_. I _will kill_ you. I hope you die of my hand."

"No, no, Jeremy." I breathe.

He throws my head back so that it bashes into the window, pain shoots through my frame I feel the beginnings of a migraine start. I thrust my hand forward, my blade lands in his gut. Blood starts to pool in a circle around the intrusion point.

Jeremy looks down at it and smirks. He covers it with a hand. His eyes snap up and meet mine. "My hand and that hand alone, Parker!!" He promises as he melts into the flames and I fade into nothingness.

My eyes snap open. I'm in my bunk, sweating, panting, jittery and shivering, "Holy—" I rub my tired eyes, and hop out of my bed. I land nimbly on the floor and stumble before catching myself on the railing of the bed itself.

I lean against the cool metal and take a deep, shaking breath. I can feel the pole starting to melt into my spinal cord. I stand straight and run a hand through my hair.

The strands spike up and stick into the sweat-glued connection, my hand is damp. "Ugh!" I wipe it off on the wall and tear off my clothing. I turn on my shower and jump into the cold water.

It heats up too quickly for my preference. I hate warm showers. Twisting the dial I keep the water at a fringing warm. I bow my head and the cool water becomes my second skin. I feel the sweat leave my body and the water replaces it.

I lean against the tile wall and the shower sputters. My hand finds shampoo and conditioner and then my hair. Then it finds body wash and my body. It pauses at my middle. I see my little brother's face again. I hear his voice, so much like a lover. Feel his intimate touch still burning my skin.

My mind falls blank and I lose myself in the blackness of thoughtlessness; my hand plays around a little and then finds the shower knob again.

It twists the dial to the off-position and finds a towel. I walk out into my room and dry myself better. I sit on the bed for a second, staring at my reflection in the full-length mirror across from me.

My hair was almost black from the lack of light and the water's added effect. The disheveled mass of tresses almost covers my eyes. I blink slowly and lean forward, the moon catches my pupils and I see my unique feature in clarity.

My irises were green; dark and light green thrown together in a symphony of spikes, triangular shapes and flecks; but the rim of my iris was stark burgundy. This was because as a child I'd gotten into a fight with my best friend about whether or not a person should keep a secret or not—he hit me in both eyes rather harshly and my eyesight wasn't damaged, but my coloring got messed up. I smile at my feature wryly. I step back and yawn, stretching.

I was awake now. I glance at myself in the mirror again. My long form leanly, muscled, still vibrant with youth, six-foot-seven. I shake my head and water droplets fly. I stare at nothing for a moment; then slip into a pair of boxers, yanking some semi-loose skinny jeans on afterward and finally a long-sleeved shirt.

I rub my eyes pointlessly, and open the door with my eyes closed.

"Nightmare?"

I almost jump. Last is standing in my doorway. Her flowery pink hair was lighting up the hallway in a soft, peaceful way. Instant thought: _I want to chop it all off._

"Screw you, Last." I manage to hiss, and the girl snarls, "Nice to know." I see my brother's form flash instead of Last's and I shudder, she doesn't notice.

I scoff, "Whatever. No one cares." She grins, a slight upturn of the lips that made the rest of her features sinister. Even the shading of her rather evident hips, which were only evident since her waist, was miniscule.

"Parker, surely you can't be thinking of running away. I mean, I won't stop you if you are, but you of all people know the consequences."

I stare the girl down; I was taller than her by a lot. Her head only reached to the meeting of my ribcage. Last cocks her head up and snorts, "Beanpole." The only downside to that, I could see straight down her shirt. Lord, I did not need that view.

"Last, I'm not running away, unlike most that were forced into this job I came in myself, and I enjoy it."

"Unlike most who were genetically altered to do this job, I naturally have a knack for it, so since I'm not drugged up I can do things better."

"You're still at a disadvantage." I mutter. She quirks an eyebrow, I smirk and lean forward, my chin hovering above her shoulder, "You're one of the shortest." She lets out a cat-like hiss and I snort, "Oh so frightening." Last didn't like the sarcasm in my voice, but she couldn't stop me. I would just quite literally step over her.

Last grumbles to herself as she twirls sharply on her heel; stalking down the corridor. I can't help but notice the slight sway of her hips. It drew attention to her behind. I shake my head, cover my eyes. Oh Lord. Did I honestly just consider Last—Last—as an attractive person? What was wrong with me?

I shake my head and rub my temple with the palm of my hand. I need something to eat.

I take off in the opposite direction of the salmon-haired girl, heading toward the center of the Underground building. I make my mission simple as I turn sharp corners easily, my lean, long body starting to gain momentum.

At the end of the hall was a staircase. Always slick as if someone had just recently waxed it. I slide down the banister of the steps agilely, the main part of the institution alive and humming with the adult life.

That's right. During two a.m. to six a.m. the teenagers were supposed to be asleep and the adults went on their missions. Not tonight.

I wove through the adults who were mostly heads and beyond shorter than me. I reach the kitchen and grab a bowl. I pour myself some Cinnamon Toast Crunch and sit up on the counter near the knives.

The women were completely unpredictable—even though pregnancy was looked down upon it did help with missions sometimes.

Few adults entered or left the kitchen. A small mercy I was sure to thank God for. But one adult that entered made my head turn.

I'd seen him around the adult bunks even though he didn't look like one. He had a young face and lean body. We were close in height, he was probably about six-foot-five. He had a sharp temper, quick tongue and killer accuracy. His hair was fiery orange and his bangs were bluish-black. His eyes were yellow and hazel and gold, thrown into a very attention grabbing and intricate design that seemed almost unreal.

Ash was back from Europe.

He smirks and grabs a knife. "Care to par?" His voice was that of a mature teenager. Rough and perfect fit for his body. I snort, eating some more of my incredibly healthy Cinnamon Toast Crunch. "I'd rather not get myself murdered by the hand of one of my kind."

Ash barks something like harsh laughter and sets the knife back. "Smart kid." He then turns to the pantry and starts digging through it. I play with the Cinnamon Toast Crunch a little more before Ash snaps, "What the Hell?"

"What's missing?" I ask apathetically—I had a feeling I knew the answer. "My beer!" And I was right—I give my own grin and down the milk and whatever was left in my borrowed bowl. "Nation."

The young man's grin falls. "Nation?" Was that worry in his voice? I nod and reply. "Yea, Nation got really depressed when you left. Took all the beer. Drank himself drunk."

I walk past the man and he grins—clutching my wrist and pivoting my body he orders, "Take me." I pause. Those two words had a great lot of meanings. Yet, I glance down, the hand cutting off my circulation was white-knuckled, "Take you?" Ash eyes me, "To Nation."

"Oh, fine." I mumble, "Whatever." I toss my bowl in the sink and slither to the main hall. Ash is right behind me. I sink into the shadows, creeping down a stray hall to a small room, which within came sounds a fifteen-year old shouldn't make.

Ash's face contorts and I can see his eyes spark with intense anger. I step slightly aside and Ash kicks the door down. The sight before me forces my eyes wide in horror.

It's not like Nation tried to hide his sexual orientation—but he didn't display it either.

The young teen was sitting on his bed, naked, with two others on the bed with him. Fully clothed, no less, but it was awful to see. Ash growled and threw two throwing knives at the others. They jumped as the knives just barely missed them. They turned their heads slowly saw the demeaning shadows that were Ash and myself. The two people barreled past us.

Nation sat there on his bed and tears spilled from his eyes silently as Ash walked up to him. "What the Hell was that?" Ash's voice was infuriated. It was as if he couldn't believe Nation would do such a thing.

I slip silently into the shadows and watch the scene before me unfold.


	3. chapter two

*~*~*~*

chapter two. nation . . . . . . and other issues.

*~*~*~*

Ash walked up to Nation. The teen looked at the young man with all familiarity. "Ash." He breathed the name. Oh, how good it felt on his lips, playing across his tongue and stumbling clumsily past his teeth, out of his mouth.

Tears spilled across his cheeks, making them wet and sticky. Ash was glaring at him. Ash was upset with him. Why was Ash upset with him? What did he do? He hadn't done anything wrong . . . had he?

Then there was a sharp pain on his right cheek, and suddenly he was no longer looking at Ash. He was looked at his pillows. His crumpled pillows that smelled like Ash smelled and were covered with—with, something.

Slowly turning his head again he came to stare into Ash's double-colored iris's. Nation lifted a delicate, soft hand to his cheek. It stung. Ash had hit him._ Ash_ had hit him.

Nation's head went back as the sob choked at his Adam's apple and Nation let out a moan, more tears fell across his cheeks and Ash watched him descend to the soft sheets slowly, like an angel would. "What did you do? What did you do? You let—fucking let—other's take advantage of you!"

Nation looked up and saw Ash's baggy pants—the zipper within teeth's range. Maybe if he . . . "Don't you even dare."

Nation recoiled. _Oh_, that piercing voice. It _couldn't _be Ash's. _It couldn't._ Then there was added weight on the bed. The dejected teen looked up and let out the most innocent gasp.

Ash's face was near his. He could see in fine detail the small scars he had from piercings, the freckles he'd gained from the sun, and his lips, which were chapped and hadn't been against the teenager's own in thirteen months. Nation moans throatily, bringing a hand up to rest it on the cheek before him. Ash settled into the touch.

Nation's eyes continued downward. Next there was the neck. The long, heavenly neck that was free of scars. The neck that was and smooth and lickable. The pale, creamy lean, expanse of flesh that smelled like cigarettes and blood. The hidden area where Ash's hairline ended and if he touched it just right would make Ash growl in pleasure.

But the neck led to the shoulder. The shoulder had a few small, circular scars on it. Where the clavicle felt the need to be stubborn and predominate. But it was still pale, still creamy. Lickable. Tasty.

Nation closed his eyes, choked a little and leaned forward. Noses touched. Ash pulled away, pinned Nation's hands under his own. Nation whined, leaning forward, pleading for forgiveness, and entrance. He cried out as Ash surged forward and bit his lower lip.

Heat wrapped around his lower middle and Nation moaned again. Raising his hips slightly, only to have them pushed down. The teen's eyes opened, malachite green orbs met with those piercing, familiar, _gorgeous _gold ones.

The lips left his, and the heat left his lower body. Ash sat up, making him a million feet tall and Nation leaned forward reaching for the zipper. Ash allowed him to unzip the thing before pushing Nation away and standing on the floor.

He looked at the boy carefully. As if he were considering leaving the teenager there, naked, tear tracks on his cheeks, the most hopeful, sorry spark in his eye. "No, no, please."

Ash's eyes narrowed, Nation's voice was slightly choked and his nimble fingers were reaching across the expanse of open air for the button that would release what he had longed for—for so long. Ash glared again. "Is that how you begged them?"

Nation flinched, sitting back into his original position, feet under the butt, knees far apart, hands on his ankles. Ash inspected the position. "Is that how you sat for however many men? Begging them, right? No, no, I promise to be good. I promise, I promise, please, please—_I need you_—" It was the harshest whisper. It was the _truth_. The pressure was on the bed again. A knee was there, "take me, take me, take me away from my pain. O please—O, God, please."

Nation winced and Ash came quickly, pinning his hands above his head fluidly, his mouth on the boy's Adam's apple, biting. Biting _hard. _Ash was pinning him to the bed with the accuracy of a snake, and _O_ _God, _how Nation had _missed _it.

* * *

I step back from the doorframe. I could tell where this was going. I didn't want to involve myself. I smile as I slip into the living room and find it free of adults.

When three a.m. came around all people were to be on missions or in bed—or in the relic room. I spot the blended insignia and skull. I look around, no one coming. I couldn't smell or taste, hear or see anyone.

I press the empty eyes sockets in and the skull glides out of the wall, rearranges itself, the tri-parts moving around each other to flip the skull upside down and stuff it back into the wall activating the door to slide open. I tiptoe into the hall behind the door and watch it fit back into the wall seamlessly.

I grin at the intellect of the people I was, practically, raised by. Then, I turn. The hall was pretty much pitch black. I wave my hand in front of me. A set of lanterns light up the area before me softly.

The ivory marble before seems endless and is timeless. I take another step forward and break into a run. The lights barely manage to keep up with me. I fly down the hall, turn quick, efficient and wind down the marble stairwell to the room.

It was empty except for the softly lit lanterns all around the room and the fourteen marble statues of the most famous, well-known assassins ever.

I look to my left and smile at the statues; each assassin had their weapon of choice and position in accordance, with their name and time frame on the base beneath them. I walk along the statues on the right side of the circular room and my fingers skirt the bases and I stop at the last three bases.

"Ezio Aditore da Firenze. 1459. Eagle of Death. Italy."

"Altair Ibn La-Ahad. 1136. Flying Eagle, Son of None. Holy Land."

"Desmond Miles. 1987. Eagle of the South. America."

"The ancestral three." I murmur, falling to a knee and then to the other, I fall back and lay on my back. I stare at the men sculpted into the statues.

Altair was standing, slightly angled toward Ezio, feet apart, left hand fisted, and a hidden blade showing itself discreetly. The other hand held a throwing knife between each digit. His face hidden by the cowl of his hood; yet his smirk was evident, along with the 2-inch scar placing itself vertically on his lips.

Ezio was standing tall; head angled down, an arrogant smirk on his lips, which held the same scar as Altair's. His hands were outstretched, as if asking for a hug, but you could see on his outstretched palms the twin-hidden blades were out. One foot was in front of the other elegantly and he was perfectly balanced.

Desmond seemed like the odd one out. He was standing in a completely lax position. No assassin cloak, just a jacket and jeans. His arms were crossed, a hidden blade on his right hand. His lips had the same scar as Altair and Ezio's, but he looked more like he wanted to punch someone, instead of arrogant.

I smile at the marble statues and stand up. I bow to the statues and walk very slowly back up the stairs, down the hall and into the living room. I close my eyes and smell the air. Nothing. Pure. Blissful. Cookies. Wait. Cookies? Why do I smell sugar cookies? I head toward the kitchen and a hand falls on my shoulder, "The Hell?"

"Hey there Parker." I jump in my moment of immaturity and lack of focus. "Holy _shit_, Gabi. You scared the _fuck_ out of me."

"Shit isn't holy and yea, I know. It's all over your face."

"What do you want?" The girl's playful grey eyes bear into my reddish-green ones. She twirls her long, long, wavy golden hair in her hands and grins. "Superior wants you." She then says. I grin. "I have a mission." It's a statement not a question. "I would assume so." Still grinning, I bend to kiss the top of Gabi's head and she swipes her hand at me, I leap away. Laughing I run down the hall to the steps. _Though an assassin is to be expected of being skilled in stealth and killing we can have our fun can't we?_ I chuckle darkly at the mental question and agilely slide down the banister on the pads of my socks.

I hear a thud as a novice drops from the trap door. I catch her and she yelps. "An assassin shouldn't feel surprise." I warn and throw her. I hear her stumble and laugh then jump, catch a rod that hung above me; swinging to a chandelier.

I leap atop the chandelier and the down to a pile of cardboard boxes, I grab at another rod, yanking it down and listening till I heard snap. I quickly take action. I pull myself up onto the breaking rod and leap, legs running through the air, landing roughly on top of the pile of empty boxes—using them as a cushion and bouncing back up, stumbling to catch ground, turning, bounding down the hall of white and metal to open the door and look up into Superior's eyes.

"Parker." He cracks a smile, "My, my, my. You caught wind early. How did you know?" I glance away sheepishly, "Gabi was making sugar cookies." Superior laughs. He laughs strong and hearty and shakes his head till tears start to well in his eyes and he still laughs. "Wow. That simple, eh?" I crack a wry grin and nod. "Well, when your colleague tends to tease you by way of making your favourite foods when you can't eat them, you catch on to the game of life quickly." Superior nods, "Understandable." He stands up from where he sat; a raised platform with desk and chair, and walks toward me.

"Parker. Part of the job description is working with people you abhor, people you love, and people you question. Well, you may just start to loathe me after today. Because I know how much you hate her, but just like you, she's one of the best.

"Parker, you have to work with Last on this mission."

I feel my muscles tense at the sound of her name. I immediately gain a migraine and I sway. "What?" My voice sounded a million miles away, distant, confused, and _enraged_. I was furious. I was furious, upset, appalled.

_Last._

I had to work on a mission with _Last_ of _all _people. It has to be the one I loathe more than any other. _No one _was unaware of my feelings toward her.

Just as it was no big secret Last _hated_ me, it was known by even _novices_.

_Novices _for Christ's sake! That is, as in, the people who were _just barely_ able to call themselves _assassins._

"Why?" I question, my sanity on its brink, the bridge of rotted wood and dust began to twist into rope again, my mind starting a pathetic crawl to get across. Proving I was a horrible ropewalker. My feet were unbalanced and my aim wasn't too great. I was afraid of heights and the fall was over a thousand feet. I look up at Superior; he had a gentle smile on his lips, the Ancestral scar placed on his lips vertically and to the right.

A war scar. The one he had won in a fight against his brother-in-arms. A partner who had been close to him. I had been there to watch the bloody fight. He watches me with the knowledgeable, inquiring, tawny-green eyes, "Because this is the test of proof. You and Last must prove you can work together. You and Last must kill several men. Each time come back to me with a feather baring his blood." I knew that he would know who we killed too, because there were people stationed all over the world. All of them brothers.

"Is that all? Seven? Hm. That seems too little for such experienced as Beanpole and I." I throw my head back to exaggerate my exasperation, "Shoot me now." I mutter, Superior cracks a wry smirk and pats my shoulder.

"Peace, my Son." I grimace. I was four inches taller than him. "Last, my student." The she-demon smiles and trots forward to hug Superior. "Superior, sir."

"How are you tonight?"

"Civil." I guffaw, covering my mouth to change it into a really fake sounding cough before abruptly choking on air. Last glares at me and I shoot her a fake grin. "Bullshit." She her head to the side, then raises a hand to her mouth and coughs out the word "faggot". I smack her upside the head and she bares her teeth.

"See what I mean? How can I run an Institution for Assassins if my two best are at each others throats constantly?"

"Very carefully?" I offer, Superior chuckles, murmuring something under his breath, he shakes his head—I glance a Last soon enough to leap from the girl's grip. "Ha." Last eyes me, gauging what action she should take next. "Bastard." I smirk, bowing low and sarcastic. "Tiny Tim." I rebut, Last's eyes narrow to slits and she charges me.

"Your first target is Aelis Sandaro." I catch Last's punch and she cushions my knee from hitting her too hard in the gut with a hand. "Aelis Sandaro." I repeat. "Yes, she is well known in her small privately owned region near Britain."

"One of the outer islands?" Last queries, releasing my knee with a harsh shove and hopping back, beckoning me with a curve of her index finger and smirk. "Ask Ash, he was the one scouting her."

"So _that's_ where he went." A unison remark from both Last and myself, make up look at each other questioningly before I abruptly charge her. She lets out a surprised gasp of shock as I knock her down. She then growls when I pick her up and toss her over my shoulder.

"Yes. He was supposed to report back to me as soon as he got back. However he has not." Superior furrows his brow, a crease showing against his nose.

"He was having Nation problems." I mutter, bowing to Superior—an angry Last insisting I put her down _this instant or else_. "Ah." Superior nods and smiles at me once more. "Good luck my son." I smile softly and nod before turning to take off.


End file.
